


Moving Day

by seatbeltdrivein



Series: Wandering-verse [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: M/M, future!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seatbeltdrivein/pseuds/seatbeltdrivein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy, Ed, and cohabitation – was it really a good idea?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving Day

Ed had plenty of _morning after_ 's in his life: the morning after Al lost his body, the morning after Al regained his body, the morning after Mustang became Roy, the morning after he gave up his State Alchemist position—the list went on and on.

But this, he thought, shifting away from the feel of Roy's elbow digging into his belly. _This_ was a new morning after.

There were still boxes all over the place, some half-unpacked, books and clothes and fuck-knew-what tossed about the bedroom. The thought of everything beyond the bedroom, the boxes lining the stairs and the living room and—it set Ed's head to pounding.

Behind him, almost _on_ him, really, the big leech, Roy let out a rumbling snore, simultaneously burrowing deeper into the bedding and dragging Ed with him. It wouldn't have been bad, would have been nice, in fact, had the room not been so hot, the bedding so thick. He'd _told_ Roy to leave the god damn windows open, but did he listen?

"Off," Ed said, squirming out of Roy's grip. " _Off_ , damnit!"

Almost immediately, Roy rolled away, curling up on his side on the opposite end of the bed. Interesting how he listened better when he was asleep. That, Ed decided, might be something worth investigating.

Scooting off the bed, Ed's shoved the covers away, scowling as he stumbled sleepily to the window, flicking open the latch and letting the morning in. Or, rather, letting the late night in? It was still dark outside. Puzzled, Ed looked over to the bedside table, only to realize they hadn't even put the fucking clock out yet.

 _Roy's doing_ , he thought darkly. There was no telling where the alarm was, anyway, so Ed wasn't about to bother looking for it. Instead, he grabbed his robe (might not have been his before, but it sure as hell was now) from where it hung off the end of the bed, slung it around his shoulders, and crept out of the room.

The stairs creaked loudly, just another benefit of an older house—Roy's words, of course. The only benefit Ed had seen so far was that the neighbors left them alone. It was a general's house, and so they lived on a road of generals—the very same men who'd been forced to approve their housing request.

Ed had nearly destroyed the entire street when he'd seen where they'd written his name on the contract—right on the line that read _wife (second spouse)._

Down the stairs and in the kitchen, Ed flipped on the switch, cursing when his vision went black and spotty against the rush of light. Once he could open his eyes without flinching, he stared blearily up at the wall clock.

Two in the morning.

"Figures," Ed muttered, disgusted. There wasn't a point in fighting it. Wondering just which of the boxes on the first floor held his books, Ed scrambled through the cabinets, searching for coffee grounds.

It wasn't even ten minutes later, the percolator just beginning to burp out coffee, that Ed's frantic search of the boxes stuffed in the kitchen was interrupted. "I hope you're not planning on making a habit of this."

"Thought you were sleeping," Ed said distractedly, rooting through a box full of what appeared to be two years' worth of editions of the _Eastern Quarterly._ "I woke you up?"

Roy shrugged. He hadn't even bothered dressing properly, just a pair of sleep pants hanging low, a trail of wiry black hair peeking out about the waistline, just under his navel. "When I suggested we move in together, it wasn't so I could continue sleeping alone."

"Aren't you sweet," Ed snorted. "Mind getting me a mug?"

A sigh. "I don't suppose you've made enough for two?"

"I always make enough for two," Ed said, and he did, usually, without even thinking about it. Al was forever criticizing his inability to be economical with coffee, _a full canister of grounds shouldn't be gone in a week, Ed!_

Just another good reason he was here with Roy instead.

"We really need to take care of this," Roy said, cursing loudly as he caught his foot on the corner of a box labeled _sports_. What sports meant, exactly, Ed couldn't say.

"It's been a damn day," Ed said. "Don't start bitching about boxes until a month's gone by!"

"What, is that the rule?" Roy looked amused. He managed to find two mugs, both black with the Amestrian insignia, and passed them to Ed. "Don't forget the cream."

"Cream's gross," Ed said. "So I didn't buy any. Take it black."

With a huff, Roy sat down at the table. "I suppose I'll have to buy some tomorrow, then, won't I?"

"Gross," Ed reiterated, and handed Roy his coffee, taking the seat opposite.

It wasn't like he thought it would be. When Roy had first asked, managing to turn a simple question into a full paragraph of stammered out words, Ed had imagined disaster, first. He'd immediately pictured them murdering each other before they could even climb into bed the first night—living together?

It was a joke, that's what he'd considered it.

But he'd agreed. He couldn't even say _why_ he'd agreed, aside from having been distracted by Roy's uncharacteristic anxiety. Now, though, surrounded by boxes and feeling oddly claustrophobic in his own kitchen— _their_ kitchen—Ed found he rather liked the idea.

There was a big difference between living with family and living with someone you loved enough to want to wake up next to them everyday. It was the difference between sitting at a table at three in the morning and just wanting to go to sleep, desperate to close his eyes— _or_ sitting at a table at three in the morning and grinning at the feel of cold feet kicking playfully against his own.

Maybe he'd been right the first time, and maybe it was a joke, the whole idea of love and cohabitation. Maybe close quarters would drive them both mad and destroy any semblance of a working relationship between them, but in that moment, that instance of shared insomnia, Ed felt perfectly happy, as though nothing in the world could possibly touch them.

Sometimes, it was nice to be proven wrong—and Ed planned to spend the rest of his life in that house doing just that.


End file.
